


Save Me

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 1 year before the blackout, 3 years post-blackout, Bass POV, Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, miloe - Freeform, references to Miles/Rachel and Bass/Shelly, three-alarm angst, trigger for family death, trigger for past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the worst moments of their lives, Bass and Miles learn all they need is each other (and really angsty sex). Bass POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Me

**Author's Note:**

> SciFiDVM asked me to expand upon a line in a previous story...and then this terribly angsty sex happened. This story mashes up my Miles headcanon with actual Bass canon. If you're interested in more on the Miles stuff, you might check out my story Aevum, which expands upon it.

**About a Year before the Blackout**

You think you know what you are made of. You survived the toughest motherfucking training in the U.S. military. You’ve been a Marine near ten years – _Semper-fucking-fidelis_ – on two tours in Iraq and now one in Afghanistan. You’ve been shot at and hit; you’ve killed soldiers, women, children, some on accident, some on purpose. And almost a year ago, you learned how the universe planned on paying you back: your own family wiped out in a car crash, heads splashed so hard against the pavement, they didn’t even make you identify the bodies. Too traumatic. Unnecessary, they said.

You survived it all, because of him: Miles. But fate wasn’t done with you yet – it took him, too, for four long months of gut-knotting uncertainty, while he rotted away in some Taliban shithole prison. Seven failed-rescue attempts later, maybe fate extended its hand in truce – said, _Enough_. You got him back. Sure he wasn’t _your_ Miles – not exactly – his eyes were dead instead of melancholy, he was skinny and dirty and not quite _mean_ enough. Then, there were the parts of his recovery (the internal stitches, for instance) you tried not to overhear, because even the imposter Miles deserved some kind of dignity. _Fuck_ , it made you livid when Ben and Rachel kept prodding you for details over the phone, knowing their broken Marine was coming home to them ( _of all people_ ), while you were returning to the frontlines to finish your tour.

So here Bass sits in a plastic chair on base, outside the LT’s office, listening to the thud of his own heart, rehearsing what to say to Miles now that it’s been three months. They’d never been apart this long (except for the time Miles was missing, but that didn’t count, because Bass had spent every waking second trying to get to him). Everything has changed. Bass has seen combat without Miles, he’s watched a few more of their buddies die, has lain in sand pits, screaming alone over his dead sisters with no Miles to take his hand. It’s odd to think he’s actually afraid to see a man he once believed he knew better than himself. He doesn’t know _what_ he knows anymore, except life is unfathomably cruel…until it is unexpectedly kind.

Here Miles comes, without warning (fucker never calls), the fatigues off-setting hollowed cheeks that Bass has seen far more times than his own face, because who spends their lives gazing into mirrors? Miles isn’t smiling, but that’s not unexpected. As Bass leaps up, Miles puts out his hand, because he’s Miles – _an idiot_ – but of course, Bass never lets him get away with that shit. He has Miles locked in a side-armed hug, his ears ringing with “brother!” while Miles looks vaguely embarrassed and a little pleased. Bass almost has himself convinced that he remembers what happy feels like until he thinks again of asphalt. And brains. And screaming. He constantly has to remind himself that he wasn’t there when they died, because he sees everything down to the whites of their terrified eyes; he might as well have been the drunk driver.

“How was Chicago?” Bass asks. He and Miles had spoken on the phone just once, early on, and it hadn’t been going well then. What Bass wants to ask is: _Did you and Rachel fuck again?_ Because they’ve never managed to keep their hands off each other before, and it inexplicably pisses him off.

Miles shrugs and maybe reads the real question off Bass’ face, because he skips to the punchline: “Rachel never wants to see me again.”

“That good, huh? You guys…?”

Miles runs his fingers over his chin like he’s an old man. In any case, he’s done with that line of inquiry: “Glad you’re safe, Bass. How’d we make out.” Their unit, of course. Miles doesn’t even phrase it as a question, as if to protect himself from the probability of bad news.

Bass sighs, and they plop down on the plastic, bucket seats side-by-side. “Framer and Helm are gone. Patterson is all fucked up. He came home and shook his newborn. Nearly killed her.”

“Shit,” Miles gasps. “Is he…? Shit.” Miles violently shoves his hand back over his chin. Bass flops his hand on the back of Miles’ neck. No doubt Miles feels guilty for abandoning their unit mid-tour. It doesn’t matter that he had no choice. It’s how any Marine in his situation would feel.

Bass moves on, because the Patterson thing is too heavy for him, too. “You all healed up?” he asks Miles.

“Yep.” Miles stands, and Bass is grateful that he doesn’t elaborate. “I gotta talk to the LT – get oriented. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Bass stands too. “LT said he’s giving us both a 24-hour pass. What do you say we make something of it and hit a bar or two? Stay in a cheap motel and watch some TV, just like old times?”

“Really? A pass? I just got here.” Miles looks puzzled. He doesn’t seem to understand how worried everyone has been about him. Patterson cracked, and he went through less. Miles shakes it off and continues, “Uh, yeah. That sounds great, man. I’m really glad to see you.”

_Damn_. It’s more affection than Bass has heard out of Miles, well, virtually ever, and he can tell from the eyes it's at least in part from the guilt. Bass knows how tortured his best friend gets – that Miles is afraid to lay any more burden on Bass after his recent…calamity. Bass could tell by all the platitudes Miles has been emailing him. Finally, Bass had just written him back: _Hey, let’s just be fucked up together_. He hopes for some kind of peaceful fuck-up-ery, but part of him worries they’ll just combust together and shit knows what’ll happen then.

The bar seems to confirm the worst. Miles hardly speaks, and he pounds whiskeys a little too fast even for Bass’ taste. Bass has to drive the Challenger to a Super 8, and Miles _always_ drives, even – perhaps _frequently_ – drunk (how do you like that irony?), so he must be really far gone to give Bass the keys. Bass spends the next hour holding Miles’ head over the haphazardly-cleaned toilet. There’s a curly black hair or two beneath the seat when they lift it up. When Bass needs a break from the bile and the heaving, he drives out to get Miles some Gatorade at a service station. Miles hates water.

By the time he returns, Miles has showered and is sitting in his boxer shorts in the corner with his knees drawn to his chest, tattoos squid-ink black against his pale skin. Bass thunks next to him, offering the bottle of ectoplasm-green liquid.

“Here bud. Drink something.”

Miles obeys but won’t look at Bass – is ashamed he couldn’t hold his liquor.

“Miles, you can talk to me if you want. You know how fucked up I am. Nothing you’re thinking can be worse than what I’ve come up with.”

Miles nods and takes a sip. But it’s insane to think Miles would talk.

“You want to just call it a night?” Bass concludes with a sigh and is about to head for the bathroom, when Miles catches his wrist.

The brown eyes are so intense they could burn a hole through you, if they weren’t simply your constant companion for twenty years.

“Nothing works.”

After Bass shakes off the sheer shock that Miles is sharing, he works on deciphering. “Nothing…?” His brain flicks to, you know, _that_. “D’you mean… you and Rachel did it again?”

Miles shakes his head but says, “Well, yes…but _since_ her, Bass. I can’t feel anything. There’s nothing there, man, it’s like…I can’t describe it.”

Bass ponders this for a moment. “What like…you can’t get it up?”

With apparent difficulty, Miles nods. Not to minimize Miles’ pain, but this does feel a bit trivial in light of the ordeal Miles’ body went through.

“It’ll pass, Miles. Give it time. Trust me, you don’t need _Rachel_ to feel things. She doesn’t want to see you again? _Good_.” It’s coming out more bitter and jealous than he intended and leaves him almost breathless.

…

Bass eventually gets Miles in bed – it’s a friggin’ queen for two grown men, but that’s all this cheap-ass motel had – and as usual, Bass tries to relax while Miles is all sharp edges, tossing and turning like the fucking Irish Sea. Sometimes Miles’ bed habits annoy Bass so much, he’ll just push Miles off the edge, to which his friend usually concedes with only moderate grumpiness before falling asleep like a log. But tonight it feels too cruel.

Sure enough, Bass drifts off only to be barbed awake by an elbow. It occurs to Bass that Miles isn’t just trying to get comfortable this time, he’s jacking off. _Jesus_ , Bass thinks with a sigh. Miles is so desperate to jumpstart his faulty equipment that he doesn’t even care that Bass is right beside him. It makes Bass terribly fucking sad. As gruff and hard as Miles is, he’s got this weird, embarrassed quality about his body that Bass vaguely attributes to Miles’ mother dying when he was young and his dad needling him and Ben with weird notions of manliness and religious self-deprivation.

After a few minutes, Bass grows just as desperate for Miles to achieve an erection as the man struggling beside him to get it up.

“Miles.”

Miles starts, apparently unaware that Bass has been observing the morbid show.

“Shh,” Bass orders quietly, laying his hand on top of Miles’, which just happens to be crammed down the front of his underwear. “Take off your shorts.”

Miles hesitates, so Bass simply reaches down and pulls them off for him. “Stop being so brutal. It won’t help to force it.”

Bass gathers Miles’ damp head underneath his chin, and insanely, Miles allows it. Bass can already feel wet seeping onto his neck – tears not sweat, though Miles is absurdly sweaty, too, like he's been working at this for hours. Bass reaches down to stroke the deflated silk of Miles’ traitorous penis. “Shh,” he murmurs into Miles hair again, because Miles twitches like Bass’ fingers are hot pokers. Bass is aware that his callouses are rough, and Miles isn’t responding yet, so he keeps his touch light and tender. Miles burrows his face deeper into Bass' neck – cheeks scalding – and Bass is at once overwhelmed by love and relief that he is holding his best friend, whom he almost lost. He’s well aware of how weird it is that he’s giving Miles a hand job, but he’d do anything for him.

Bass pauses to spit into his hand and reaches down for another pass, putting some weight into it. _That’s it._ Miles is starting to fuck his hand a little, roll into it, and at last Bass feels an erection start to grow. Bass thinks, _Whatever they did to you Miles, they don’t own you_. But he says out loud: “Just let it go. I’ve got you.”

Miles whimpers or possibly sobs, and Bass pulls the angular body in closer so that the tip of Miles’ dick can rub against his stomach muscles. Bass has never held another man’s dick before, and it’s such insane velvet contrasted with hardness that it sends a shiver of pleasure to his own pelvis. Miles starts to leak – a good sign – but Bass will do this as long as it takes. And it takes _forever_. His arm muscles are searing, his hand is cramping, but he doesn’t give up on Miles.

Miles’ eyes and nose drip wantonly over his neck and chest, and Bass thinks, _Goddammit Miles, don’t fall apart on me. You’re all I have._ Somehow getting Miles to come has become indivisible from saving both of their sanities.

And then it happens: Miles jerks violently, ejaculating in Bass’ hand in little, warm splashes.

“Sorry!” Miles instantly apologies.

“It’s okay,” Bass reassures. Miles smells rank as a kid on the playground. Bass wipes his hand on the sheet and turns away, suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy they’ve shared. He doesn’t want to reject Miles, but neither can he bring himself to look back. Instead, he reaches behind to take his best friend’s hand. After that, Miles sleeps still as a corpse.

* * *

**Three Years after the Blackout**

It was a boy. William, for Bass’ father. Bass would have loved his baby if it had been a green Martian, but somehow seeing the tiny, withered evidence of its sex in confirmation that it would have been named for Dad made it more… _sickening_. Is the sum total of loss infinity? Or is it nothing?

Of course, had the baby been a girl, she would have been “Shelly,” because Shelly insisted if men named sons for themselves, then by God, she’d bring back matriarchy all on her own. That was Shelly. _Was._

They say, It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but that’s bullshit. You can’t miss what you never had. You don’t perceive the emptiness of a room you’ve never visited.

“Come on, Bass. You can sleep in my tent tonight,” cuts Miles through the strange surges of Bass’ brain.

“It was a boy.”

“I know.” Miles’ brusque voice tries to find gentle for Bass, as he guides him by the arm to the tent.

Miles only wants you in his tent to keep you from killing again. Because no one could possibly _want_ to be in the presence of such reeking, sucking anguish, especially not Miles, who hasn’t figured out what to say despite years of practice.

Miles, who is pulling off Bass’ boots for him. Miles, who is dragging Bass’ shirt over his face, getting momentarily hung up on stubble and nose and yanking it free with a little grunt.

“You want me to unbutton your pants for you?”

For a moment, Bass can’t tell if he’s being mocked or if Miles honestly doesn’t believe him capable. Bass means to mutter, _I’ve got it_ , but goddamn if it doesn’t come out:

“A boy. William.”

“Bass!” Miles interrupts curtly. “You’ve got to stop this. You’re not helping yourself.” His brown eyes are wide and desperate. Yes, Bass is acting crazy. Yes, Miles is afraid of him… _for_ him?

Miles undresses and plops onto his bedroll, regarding Bass quietly. Whatever Bass is doing – rocking on his heels – continues to be wrong, apparently, because Miles instructs him, “Come over here.”

Lying down beside Miles, Bass is enveloped by river, whiskey, ash – the scents he most associates with friendship in this world – as Miles works off his pants for him. Tears ooze of their own accord, not attached to any particular thought or emotion. Then follows the extravagant shaking, violent beyond any fever or chill. Miles puts an arm around Bass and gathers him down onto the copious hair of his bare chest. Bass’ trembling vibrates _Miles’_ teeth – it’s that bad. It dawns on Bass that he hasn’t been this close to skin since Shelly. The hard muscles are less comforting than soft breast, but the contact does remind Bass what human feels like.

…

This ritual continues night after night. It seems Miles won’t let Bass out of his sight after what happened last time he did. Tonight Bass’ face is so pressed down by gravity, he’s got indentations from the crease of Miles’ armpit. His neck is horribly stiff, but it doesn’t matter, because Miles’ pulse is the only thing keeping him alive.

He watches the darkness until he’s watching the light (which substitutes for sleep). Miles tries to shift for the hundredth time, but the mass of Bass resists until Miles yields and slides his hand along Bass’ bare back instead. He can sense it in Miles – that crackle of morning horniness – and just to have something else to think about, he ghosts his hand down Miles’ stomach to where the fur thickens and then over the tented, vaguely sweaty shorts.

His bedfellow moans a little and flicks his tongue between his lips. Bass does it again, and that’s enough to rouse him.

“Bass. What’re you doing?” Miles mumbles sleepily. Outside, early risers must be laying wood on their campfires, because the aromas of smoke and meat curl in.

“We don’t need anything but each other, right?” Bass inquires, pressing his hand fully on Miles’ erection now. Miles twitches.

“I don’t…what?” Miles’ voice snags.

“You’ve literally walked through fire for me…so that superlative doesn’t mean much to us. So instead, help me forget.”

A gasp escapes Miles’ sleep-cracked lips, as Bass runs his hand down the cottony hard length until he cups tight, drawn-in balls. Miles has clenched his eyes shut, like maybe he can just enjoy this without acknowledging it’s real. But Bass needs him present; that’s the point. Distraction.

“Miles, please.”

That gets Miles’ attention and the intense, chocolate eyes shift to him.

Miles holds Bass’ gaze bravely – _that’s Miles_ – and finally he lifts up his butt to slide off his shorts. Rolling over onto Bass, he liberates Bass’ growing hardness from his worn boxers.

Miles exhales, a puff of tanned leather, like he’s been holding his breath since that fateful night. Suddenly, Miles commits: his lips smother Bass’, his hips rolling boner against boner. Bass grinds back, ignoring his leaking eyes, allowing the friction to carry him above the pain. He closes his eyes but feels Miles wipe the tears from his cheeks and even the snot from his nose with the backs of dry, rough fingers, before kissing him again. Then the lips wander down Bass’ abdominal muscles to the vulnerable head of his cock. Miles nuzzles it with scratchy cheek and then kisses, licks, and finally sucks, sliding the Y of his hand up and down the pole of Bass’ cock. It’s good. It’s working.

“More. Make me forget,” Bass gasps.

The lips continue then, down to his balls and then wet, soft tongue prods his entrance, making way for spit-soaked fingers. Once Miles has buried two fingers up to their knuckles, his cracked voice comes from below:

“For the record, I’ve only done this once before, and that was with a woman.”

“Rachel?”

He feels Miles sigh but respond simply, “I’m here with _you_.” Then after a long pause, a man so miserly with words follows up with something that must have cost him a fortune: “Look, I know you’re pissed at the universe, and you have every right to be. But just…take it out on me, ok? Fuck me; hurt me. Just don’t hurt anyone else. Please.”

Bass clenches down on Miles’ fingers and finds he can’t swallow the lump in his throat. “I would never hurt you,” is all he manages, and Miles exhales like he’s truly disappointed. But neither does he give up. That is something.

“It’s not going to be like with Shelly. I’m sorry.”

“And I’m not Rachel. But we’re all we’ve got now.”

The brown eyes are unreadable in Bass’ current mental disarray, but when Miles guides his dick against Bass’ hole, he doesn’t care anymore. Miles is big and imposing, and his push inward means Bass’ whole world becomes accommodating the immense invader. It burns like acid; how the hell did little Rachel take this?

“Bass,” Miles whispers, skating his fingers down Bass’ rib cage.

When Bass opens his eyes, he sees that Miles’ eyes are intense, alert.

He’s afraid Miles will say something else about the night he broke, but to his relief, Miles merely grunts: “Let me in,” and thrusts his hips painfully. Too tight, too dry.

But Miles sinks in anyway. They both gasp. The huge hand on Bass’ side trembles with want. For a moment, Bass’ brain threatens to interrupt with mocha skin, buckets of water and blood, but he forces himself back to: _Miles, Miles, Miles. Inside me._

“Mmm,” Miles growls gently, fucking now, long strokes, bumping into something crampy, needy inside of Bass that sets his dick pulsing with blood. Miles has one hand on the base of his own straining dick, helping himself along so that he doesn’t positively rip open Bass, while the other pumps Bass’ straining cock. When he skirts them both to their edges, he digs in with finality, jacking Bass mercilessly right at the tip. His loins coil and seize, while Miles comes at the center of him, an ache so deep and full that for the first time in days Bass feels like he is made of substance again. When Miles starts to slip out, Bass catches his hand.

“Just…stay in a little longer.”

Miles sighs and collapses, rough cheek to Bass’ stomach.

“We don’t need anyone else,” Bass repeats.

“I…I’m not sure we’re so good for each other, Bass. If I made you think you should kill all those people…”

“I’ll do anything to keep you alive,” he interjects.

“Please don’t say that.”

“You’re all I’ve got.”

“It feels like that right now, but…” Miles shakes his head, soft hair grazing Bass’ skin. Then he appears to deflate. “I’m here, Bass.”

Cooked meat primes Bass’ nostrils, and after days of not eating, he realizes he’s actually hungry. He almost doesn’t hear Miles’ second, quieter: “I’m here.”


End file.
